


This and That of You

by gummycola



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Daddy Kink, Fluff, Light BDSM, M/M, Overly emotional afterglow, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Spanking, UKUS
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-11
Updated: 2017-11-11
Packaged: 2019-01-31 18:56:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12688209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gummycola/pseuds/gummycola
Summary: Alfred and Arthur have dirty sex. That's really all there is to it.





	This and That of You

**A** lfred knew he'd get in trouble if he opened his mouth. He didn't want to get in trouble. Well, he didn't want to get in any more trouble. His ass hurt enough as it was, the big red welts that Arthur had smacked into his skin beginning to radiate a painful heat that became exponentially worse when Arthur dug his fingertips into them harshly.

 

His boyfriend hunched over him, his green eyes sliding up and down his body, looking, staring, _accessing_ him in a way that was oddly, excitingly, terrifyingly predatory.  

 

Arthur tilted to the right with a lazy grace, sliding one long-fingered hand up Alfred's bare chest. He rested his palm on Alfred's collarbone for a moment before dragging his fingernails down and across his nipples.

 

Alfred folded his lips into his mouth, sucking hard in an attempt to stifle the sounds his body so desperately wanted to make. But Arthur was sitting up straight now, looming over him dangerously, both hands kneading sweetly at his thighs. He sighed out a breath lousy with cigarette smoke and that god-awful beer he adored.

 

“So beautiful. My boy is so beautiful...”

 

Alfred couldn't help but moan at that, long and low, and he might have gotten away with such a small indiscretion had he not coupled it with a slight lift of his hips. Arthur did not hesitate, his hand painting Alfred's cheek a lovely red, and he caressed it, murmuring something about _patience, darling, sweet, wonderful boy, patience._

 

And maybe Alfred would have made it. Maybe he'd have been able to behave, if it weren't for Arthur scooping his head up into a sloppy and thorough kiss, pulling back to gaze at him with such fucking _adoration_ and whispering a furtive and haunting “ _Mine.”_

The thought that perhaps he was a pathetic and weird little fool flitted teasingly about the back of his mind for a moment. He was broken down by such simple, stupid words. But he was also achingly hard for Arthur, who was content to hum and haw his way around Alfred's body until he was assured that the man had suffered enough. And though Alfred liked to play these games too, and almost always enjoyed them just as much as Arthur did, he was severely lacking in that virtue that Arthur implored, that crucial patience, patience.

 

So he placed his knuckles firmly against Arthur's chin, his other hand traveling the length of his body to grasp at the ache between his legs, and with a pleading, shuddering voice he gasped out the name of the game he wanted to play instead.

 

“ _Daddy.”_

 

Arthur's body shook apart into quiet, pleading whimpers and hard, desperate presses. He licked at Alfred's face, his eyes wide and shining in the dim light through the crack in the door. “Yes, yes, what do you need, what should daddy do for you?”

 

It was difficult to resist the victorious grin that wanted to shatter Alfred's composure, but he had a role to play, and he was a good actor, goddammit.

 

He decided to be blunt about it. “Fuck me, daddy. _Please_ fuck me.” It didn't matter what he said to Arthur when he was like this; the man was at Alfred's mercy. Alfred didn't have much. And if Arthur wanted to get antagonistic, or violent, or strict and dominating and downright mean, that was fine. So long as Alfred got what he wanted, too.

 

“Yes, my darling, oh god, daddy will take care of you. He'll take care of his dear boy, h-his, god, Alfred, Alfred.”

 

It appeared he'd be getting what he wanted.

 

Since Arthur seemed to be having trouble doing anything more than kissing and stroking, Alfred decided it was time to get down to brass tacks. He scooped Arthur into another kiss, lifting and pressing and drifting around in the other man's grasp until he learned what places wanted to be touched.

 

They played a bit longer that way, Alfred wearing the wanton, open-mouthed face of the sexually overwhelmed and Arthur being the wild-haired and crazed sexual deviant. Taking advantage, always taking advantage, when in reality each one would give themselves to the other completely, any way he was desired.

 

His fuse lit, Arthur began to work at preparing Alfred, kissing carefully at his ankles as he made sure the other was ready for him. Alfred had even less patience now, and he propped himself up, telling Arthur to hurry, dropping his act at last. They didn't need that anymore, anyway. The game was over.

 

Satisfied at last, Arthur leaned forward to kiss his boyfriend's forehead, pushing him backwards into the mattress and continuing to push, bending Alfred over until one knee rested on his shoulder, the other pressed against his waist.

 

And Alfred wanted to cry, sort of, but not really, because finally, _finally_ Arthur was pressing into him. And they moved. And there was no bullshit. There was no pressure, except the pure, physical pressure of Arthur inside of him and that was wonderful, god, fucking _marvelous_ and worth all the weird shit in the world.

 

But of course, no matter how skilled his partner was, Alfred just couldn't stay still, just couldn't lie back and enjoy himself. He managed to sit up, awkwardly, panting as Arthur shifted upward to stand on his knees, driving into him faster and harder. Alfred watched the point where their bodies met, staring unabashedly at Arthur sliding in and out of him, ignorant to the too-loud moans and grunts his lips were spilling everywhere. Arthur caught sight of him and his perversion, and his mouth twisted into a wicked smirk.

 

“You like watching something like that, Alfred? What a nasty little thing you are.”

 

Ah, so he was that Arthur now. So many Arthurs. But, really, only the one. What if there were more? Alfred thought about having sex with multiple Arthurs. But he stopped thinking about it, because the one Arthur he had pressed into him even faster now, and made it impossible to think about much of anything.

 

It happened then, that delicious, dizzying moment when nothing could make its way into the world they had between them. The house could be burning down and they'd know nothing more than each other, than the heat of the organic, beautiful thing it was that happened to them, that _was_ them. Alfred never knew how long it lasted, but it was never long enough. His body and mind were gone, and there was Arthur, and only Arthur, moving so smooth and strong inside him. And then there was Arthur coming, collapsing, slipping his hand over Alfred once, twice, and barely a third time before he was done too, slipping a little bit over the threshold and falling down into the mattress, buzzing all over.

 

They shared silence after that for a while, but Alfred felt the dire need for a sandwich and began to extract himself from the strong pull of the bed and floppy afterthought of an embrace Arthur had sort of tossed onto him.

  
When he swung his legs toward the floor, however, Arthur slipped his hand up his back and muttered at him.

 

“You need something?” Alfred asked, firmly rubbing up and down Arthur's arm, almost like he was applying sunscreen.

 

The other man was motionless for a moment, his head stuffed between the pillows, but he lifted it slightly.

 

“A-Alfred. I just wanted to s-say.” He tried to clear his throat. Alfred could see the blush reaching his ears. God his boyfriend was weird.

 

In a moment of clarity, Alfred realized what it was Arthur was trying to say. “I love you too, sweetheart. I know. But I gotta take a whiz and make us some sammiches.”

 

He made to leave again, and again, Arthur's hand found him, more insistent this time, gripping Alfred's shoulder and tugging him toward the bed.

 

Alfred huffed a bit, getting annoyed, until Arthur finally lifted his head up enough to look him in the eye. His eyes were puffy. He wasn't crying, but he had been.

 

“Arthur, what the h-”

 

“I don't—don't think you know. How precious you are, alright? I can't bloody say it. I just...” he sat up and wrapped Alfred up in his arms. “Thank you.”

 

And Alfred didn't do this shit, because he knew how much he loved and knew how much he was loved, and he didn't need it dressed up and presented in fifty different ways. It reminded him of Francis, and his stupid food that tasted fine whether it was served on porcelain or slopped together in a tin bowl. It was good, and Alfred ate it, and it kept him alive.

 

It kept him alive.

 

But he was past the days when he laughed this off. Because he did love Arthur. He loved him.

 

So he kissed the top of his head and held him close.

**Author's Note:**

> I dug this out of a long-forgotten folder. I think this is the only explicit sex scene I've ever written? Funny how it's soaked through with sap. I am what I am.


End file.
